The Golden Swan

An Archer Stanley Mystery. 
For Audio Click here 

England Cricket fans might enjoy this one. 

Anderson was an old friend of mine. He was as mean as he was rich. He believed in looking after the pennies and looking after the pounds too. He called me when things went missing and things often went missing. His staff thought that old Anderson was so rich, that he wouldn't notice the odd trinket going AWOL. But nothing stokes the fires for Anderson more than a thief. He was pretty upset about this golden swan, it didn’t sound like much, so I guessed it had sentimental value.

I talked to a few of the staff, include the new butler Farbrace, who was tall and lithe and willowy. He was polite and calm, but there was one thing I knew about butlers, they were not thieves. They were professionals and had reputations to protect. The problem with butlers is, it’s not only their own reputations they protect. They have an omerta when it came to their staff. They threw a protective arm around their charges and never gave anything away.  I knew if I wanted to get to the root of the problem, I was going to have to see the cook. They know everything and are less reticent then butlers. I knew the cook was a formidable broad, the type who didn't suffer fools gladly. I knew she’d tell me eventually who was the thief. To get to the cook at this time of night, I had to go round the back alley and ring the bell. But before I got there I felt the dull thud of wood across my back. I stumbled forward, losing my balance, putting my hand out to steady my fall. I rolled over and looked up at my attacker, holding up my hand to protect me from another blow. But there was no one there. I staggered to my feet and reached the tradesmen entrance. I managed to reach up and ring the doorbell just in time before I passed out.

The cook was looking at me as I came round. She had a smirk on her face and a cup of tea in her hand, she handed it to me. She had a cricket stump in the other hand.

‘I think something’s stumped you Archer Stanley.’ She said.

‘Or someone.’ I replied to the smiling cook. ‘Does that belong to Anderson?’

She nodded.

‘So who used it to whack me?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Come on, whoever’s been stealing the trinkets, wanted to take me out of the equation and you know who it is.’

She shrugged again.

‘Okay, answer me this,’ I said. ‘Why is there a new butler? What happened to Prior?’

“Prior left with Lady Moores sir.’

‘I heard there had a been a split.’

‘Terrible it was,’ she said. ‘What a scandal, Lady Moores caught Anderson in bed with Lady Pietersen, she walked out and now is suing Anderson for everything he has.’

‘But they weren’t married?’

‘No, but Moores is bitter and Anderson’s lawyers, Stauss and co, say Moores might win,’ the cook said.

I didn’t know any of this. I sat thinking about it for a minute.

‘When did the trinkets start disappearing, could it be a friend of Moores, stealing stuff?’

‘They aren’t trinkets Archer. That golden Swan is worth a fortune.’

The penny dropped.

‘I think it’s time to see Anderson,’ I said.

I was surprised to see Lady Pietersen sitting with Anderson. They looked an odd couple.

‘Why are you stealing your own things?’ I said to Anderson.

He stared back at me silently.

‘Admit it,’ I yelled and while you’re at it admit you whacked me too. My guess is, you stole your stuff to keep it out of Lady Moores' hands. You get me in to investigate then try to take me out. That way, you can say I drew a blank.’

‘You’re too clever Archer Stanley, too clever by half, you always know your onions.  Now how much do you want.’

I was never one to refuse a payday, I named my price, made sure it was in cash and left the big house and it’s sordid affairs behind me.

England Cricket Fans did you spot the ruse, here is the team playing New Zealand Right now 

Cook

Lyth (Lithe) 

Balance (Balance) 

Bell 

Root 

Buttler (Butler) 

Stokes 

Ali (Alley) 

Wood 

Broad 

Anderson 

Coach Farbrace

Plus of course there is ex coach Moores and former players Prior, Swan, Pietersen, Onions and Strauss. 

Coffee Shops

A story inspired by this picture posted on Facebook by Tracey Marsh who has allowed me to use the image. 

For audio click here 

‘Do you ever go in to Soho Coffee?’ Steve said just as Johnny was taking a mouthful of Guinness.

Johnny shook his head, with a worried look in his eye. He could sense Steve was going into rant mode.

‘Well, you know in these coffee places they often have a list of drinks on the cup for the server to tick and pass to the barista, so they know what to make? ’

Johnny nodded, ‘I am aware of that.’ he said.

‘Well I went to Soho Coffee today and they have this quirky little thing; as well as the list of drinks they have a tick box that says Lovely Person.’

‘That’s fun.’ said Johnny, wondering how his friend could turn this into a problem. ‘But I’m surprised you even noticed it.’

‘I wouldn’t have, but the woman in front of me ordered a skinny latte or whatever and when she got her coffee she let out a little squeal and showed her friend the cup. She’d been nominated as a lovely person. “That’s made my day that has?” she said to her mate and then she left the café with a spring in her step.’ Steve took a gulp of beer.

‘Then the barista gave me my cappuccino, out of curiosity I had a look to see if I made the cut, if I too was a lovely person. ‘

Johnny really didn’t know which way this would go. He couldn’t decide if his mate Steve would be annoyed by being called a lovely person, or if not being called lovely, would get his dander up.

‘And?’ Johnny said.

‘I wasn’t a lovely person, if it made the woman’s day, it completed pissed on my chips, coffee had never tasted so bitter and yes I have drunk instant.’

‘Well can you blame them? You are a belligerent bastard at times, well all the time now I come to think of it.’

‘Well yes but how could they tell that, all I said was one cappuccino please, and before you say it, yes I smiled.’  Steve said, looking slightly hurt.

‘So don’t worry about it,’ Johnny said, actually feeling a bit sorry for his mate, ‘it sounds like a bit of a sleazy, sexist thing; was a guy who served you?’

‘No, it was a bloody woman.’ Steve said. ‘I left the shop with lead in my boots. I tell you. What gives bloody baristas the right to decide on my personally like some kind of teenager playing on Tinder?’

‘I bet you wouldn’t have minded if she’d ticked the lovely person box though.’ Johnny said.

‘I might have done,’ Steve said defensively, ‘Want another?’

Johnny nodded letting his mate go to the bar and letting him off the hook. 

Is Smoking Good for You?

For audio click here

Although this is based on real events,i.e there was a shop called Madge Evans that burnt down,  the story is purely fictional. 

The street was deserted, not a soul in sight. A lone seagull swooped down to the tarmac and pecked at a discarded roll before flying off again. Funny how a thriving town centre could transform into a Wild West ghost town in a matter of hours, but that was early closing day for you. As soon as the town hall clock struck 12, the shopkeepers shooed shoppers away and locked their doors. It was a grumpy, grey day adding to the desolate nature of the street. Rain fell in a fine mist rolling in off the sea. The seagull swooped again, taking another stab at the bread but didn’t hang around long before flying off and looking for shelter.

I should have been in school but getting drenched in a deserted street was better than sitting in double Physics listening to Mr Evans drone on and on about… well I didn’t know what he droned on about, I zoned out, while he droned on. Today I hadn’t just zoned out, I’d opted out. It was the first time I had ever mitched off school but I hadn’t done the homework and Evans was on the warpath. He was a sadistic man, prone to taking a ruler to boys’ fingers if their homework wasn’t done; not the knuckles but the bits in between and not the flat side of the ruler but the edge. I guess he thought that pain was a deterrent. Well I could testify about how much it hurt, he’d thwacked me more times than I cared to remember, and I was living proof his deterrent didn’t work. I needed teaching not torture, he could hit more all he wanted to, but I still wouldn’t understand what the hell was going on in his lessons. Anyway I still had bruises from last week and I was not about to let him hit me again. So I’d done a bunk, gone AWOL, done a runner and I had a plan.

That morning on my paper round I’d found a packet of cigarettes, and I was determined to try my first smoke. I fished inside my snorkel coat pockets for the matches I’d bought at William’s Stores on the way down here, and tried to light a ciggie. But the wind and the wet meant the task would have been hard for a seasoned twenty a day man, let alone a 14 year old who was lighting up for the first time. I stepped into the doorwell of the Madge Evans department store, using the shelter to help me get my nicotine stick lit. Warm smoke hit the back of my throat, tickling it, causing me to cough and splutter straight away. It tasted rank, my eyes filled with tears, I couldn’t stop coughing. I dropped the cigarette and moved away, still coughing, still trying to clear my throat. My hands stunk, my throat stung, my chest hurt, there was no way I was ever going to smoke another cigarette in my life. 

I was nearly home. As soon as I got there, I would wash my hands and clean my teeth and try to forget I’d ever been so dumb. But I never got home, suddenly there were sirens and blue flashing lights everywhere. I turned on my heels and followed the fire engines. They were heading towards the deserted town centre. Loads of kids in school uniforms just coming out of school were being held back by two policemen. But I didn’t need to get any closer, I could tell Madge Evans was on fire and it didn’t take a genius to work out why?

I had the common sense to act normally, to watch with the excited gaggle of kids and not to guilty slink off home. But the next three weeks were a nightmare, I lived in fear of a knock on the door, all the police had to do was find out which kids weren’t in school that afternoon. But the police never came. In fact the only thing that came was the news that Mr Evans the physics teacher wouldn’t be back in school that year. Who knew he was Madge Evan's grandson and who knew he was due to inherit the Madge Evans fortune, but with no  shop and no insurance his inheritance had gone up in smoke and so had his nerves.

Looking for Bethan

I think this works asa a stand alone story but for early instalments click here

For audio click here

I woke up with a start, there was a dull ache in my head and my eyes felt like I’d slept in my contact lenses. I panicked,  I was late for work, but then I realised it was Saturday. Then I remembered last night, the insomnia, the doorbell, the tea lady, the tears. I padded into the living room and looked at the middle-aged woman under a blanked on my sofa. She looked so beautiful, so lovely, so serene despite the panda eyes. I gently picked up the mugs and took them into the kitchen. I’d make us a cup of tea and then shoo the woman home.

'Good morning,’ a sleepy voice said just as the kettle clicked.

‘Hello,’ I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ she said, but I could tell she wasn’t. ‘ Thanks for making me stay last night.’

I’d insisted that she’d stayed, she’d already broken the curfew coming to me. She didn’t want to risk it again going home. I’d offered to take the sofa but she’d insisted on that.

Beryl took her tea and curled up on the sofa again lighting a cigarette.

‘She’s always known,’ Beryl said from nowhere. She took a lungful of smoke before continuing. ‘I told her her dad had run off with another woman, but she never believed me, I guess I just wasn’t a good liar.’

‘So where is your husband?’ I regretted asking the question, the less I knew, the better, but I had a feeling she was going to tell me anyway.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It was 3 days after the 2020 elections when they came for him. Three days, that’s all they took. It didn’t matter that he had papers, he was entitled to be here. What mattered was that he was Romanian, that he had swarthy skin and a heavy accent. He was an immigrant and he had to be returned home.’

I nodded my head. It was a familiar story. The UK had left the EU in 2018 and by 2020 the Tories and UKIP ran a joint campaign promising to send them all home. All immigrants who had come into the country since 2010 were to be sent home.

’15 years and nothing,’ Tears were welling in her eyes again. ‘I called his family back in Romania but they had not heard from him either. I can only guess that they had killed him. But…’ Her voice trailed off into sniffs and snivels.

‘Go home,’ I said to her, ‘Bethan might be there waiting. Let’s meet for coffee at 3.’

‘Will you know anything by then?’

I shrugged, I didn’t know what I would know by then, probably nothing, but this woman didn’t need to hear that.

When she was gone I took a shower, got dressed and left the flat, carefully watching around me for someone following me. I wouldn’t go directly to my destination, instead I would meander around, window shop, have coffee, look innocent.

I looked at the faces of the people passing by; they weren’t people anymore they were Games of Thrones drones.  What had those bastards done to this country? Gradually since 2015 our freedoms had been etched away. It may have started before that but 2015 with a catalyst in my mind. Apparently before then we’d been too passively tolerant as a nation; we’d left people alone as long as they didn’t break the law and although that seemed perfectly reasonable to me, to them it was a crime. So they took away our human rights and locked up those who complained. They fed the masses on a diet of football and HBO blockbusters, while scaring them with stories of Sharia Law coming to a street near you. Europeans were skivers, Muslims terrorists and Jews thieves. British values for a British race. Britain for the Brits. After 2020 and the Progressive Alliance landslide things got worse, immigrants were rounded up and sent home. We were told it was too dangerous to go out at night. the curfews were for our own good. And who needed to go out when Ant and Dec could entertain you in hologram form in your own living room.  But amazingly taxes were low, the streets clean and thanks to our new government providing free dental care Britain was smiling again. When the 2025 elections were cancelled, no one cared. Okay our internet was controlled, as was our freedom to travel, but people could still get their hands on porn, could still watch Big Brother and global warming made the British beaches the best in the world, so who needed to go abroad who needed to vote? 

I sat drinking my coffee waiting for the all clear. But before anyone could give me the signal, a figure slipped into the seat opposite me.

‘Bethan!’ I said. She didn’t look like she’d been detained overnight or had slept rough. 

‘I had to make you help me,’ she said. ‘I knew you had eyes for my mother.’  Another figure appeared.

‘I’m sorry,’ Beryl said, she looked like she’d just had a good shower. ‘It was the only way to get you to admit who you were.’

‘So can we join you?’ Bethan said.

I hadn’t admitted anything to anyone I thought. But these women had tricked me. Beryl was wasted as a tea lady; she should have been a actress. I nodded ever so slightly.

‘Let’s go to my place.’ I said. 

This story continues here